The orange lady is back again, this time with Goldfish and applesauce pouches. She catches me studying her, glances down at my Metallica t-shirt, and piers up into my eyes. I get uncomfortable and walk away, finding another suspect. 

It was my fathers's shirt. It's way too big for me, but it works. It has Give Me Fuel written in flames on the front, accompanied by a monster truck with eyes. 

A gust of wind swims underneath my shirt and enacts my parietal lobe. Although this part of the brain is involved in speech and reading, it oddly enough also interprets touch. My cutis anserina (goosebumps) pop up and ripple their way through my body.

Everyone seems so happy. I’ve never understood it, happiness. 

People are dying all over, and you choose to be happy? Stupid, in my opinion. And my opinion is, more often than not, correct.